


the night came down in torrents

by idlesong



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance, taeyong shivering for 5k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17704886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesong/pseuds/idlesong
Summary: Taeyong meets Yuta during the first rainstorm in weeks.





	the night came down in torrents

Taeyong yawns. He stretches one hand over his head, the other instinctively reaching for his phone on his nightstand to check the time. One tap: it’s almost ten. He didn’t set an alarm last night. A swipe across the screen, and Taeyong is informed that there are no particularly urgent matters to attend to this morning. The fortune of no classes on Friday. Another finger drawls against the surface of the phone, this time from top to bottom.

Taeyong squints, bringing the device closer to his face to better read the tiny text. His phone projects no chance of rain. Satisfied with what he’s now learned, he turns over and out of bed.

 

After locking his apartment’s front door, Taeyong slips on his headphones. Familiar melodies invade the expanse between his ears but it’s a welcome intrusion. He steps into the elevator. It takes him seven floors down.

The main doors are already open when his elevator reaches its destination. A visibly sleep-deprived student wobbles in, clutching a textbook close to her chest. She acknowledges Taeyong with a well-meaning grunt before dragging her feet into the elevator, getting her to what he hopes will be a collapse into bed.

This encounter reminds Taeyong of his own academic obligations. He means to visit the library sometime in the afternoon and finally take a look at the books he needs to reserve for his philosophy paper. When he initially allowed himself this day of break he vowed not to waste it dawdling.

Wind nonchalantly greets him as he walks out of the building. It feels much colder than he expected but it’s nothing that can’t be endured by the long (albeit thin) coat he’s wearing.

There’s a lack of sun today, but Taeyong decides to not let that worry him. His resolve is held strong by his faith in his phone’s weather application and the aversion he feels toward going back upstairs to retrieve an umbrella.

Spring always creeps up here in this town. The close proximity to the sea makes it difficult to realize when exactly the seasons begin to turn. Days forecast to be gloriously warm can swiftly turn awry.

Yet Taeyong doesn’t mind the unpredictability, or at least, he’s willing to tolerate it in exchange for the lovely scent of saltwater wafting in the atmosphere. It clings to his clothing, lingers on his skin, amalgamating with the ocean breeze that gently combs through his hair. The weather is often the only uncertainty Taeyong enjoys.

In the stillness of the morning, he takes off his headphones to enjoy the faint sound of waves meeting sand.

 

The coffee shop closest to Taeyong’s apartment is rarely busy at this time of day. Occasionally, there would be another student dozing off waiting for their coffee, head nodding into a state of sleep they were unable to experience in the previous night.

Today, there are only two other people in the store: by the window, a woman whose heavy eyes are locked on the notebook set next to her large paper cup, and an equally tired barista behind the cashier who greets Taeyong with a somber “good morning” as the latter approaches the till.

“Sleepy?” Taeyong asks as he rummages through his pockets for change, a box of mints clinking against coins as he searches.

“How’d you guess?” the cashier, whose name tag says Doyoung, replies flatly. “What can I get you?”

Taeyong stares up at the menu, wondering if he should diverge from his usual choice to continue the morning’s spontaneity. After a moment, he decides against it, figuring that his risk shouldn’t be spent on such a mundanity. He orders a tall iced americano, to which he receives a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Are you sure? It’s pretty chilly outside,” Doyoung warns, but he’s already punching the appropriate code into the cash register.

“I’ll finish it in here, it’s fine.” Taeyong looks at the bright green letters that tell him how much he owes, just to make sure the price of his daily order hasn’t changed, and slides over an approximate amount of coins.

After returning Taeyong’s change, which is then deposited into the tip jar, Doyoung steps over to the bar, rolling up his sleeves before starting his work. While Taeyong waits for his drink, he checks his phone, pulling up his weather app again. The forecast hasn’t changed.

The ice in the cup clatters against its glass walls when Doyoung sets it down on the counter. Taeyong takes it in his left hand, muttering a “thank you” before lifting himself onto a stool. He takes in his surroundings while he sips: the wooden walls with minimal decor, a few paintings strung up on the small surface area available for furnishing; a chalkboard plaque above the bar, featuring handwritten inscriptions of today’s specials; a speaker hanging in the corner where the window and wood meet, playing soft jazz music.

A few more customers sombrely float in and out of the store as Taeyong absentmindedly sips on his coffee, legs dangling from the tall chair. The wall clock tells him that it’s somewhere around 1 p.m, and that he should get going somewhere, be doing _something_ before he falls into an unproductive abyss for the day.

Taeyong leaves his glass on the bar, giving a polite nod to Doyoung before seeing himself out. The air has gotten a tad colder, but Taeyong can manage sticking his hands in his pockets on the way to the library. The clouds are grey, swimming about in the murky sky. Not a great sign, but his phone said it wouldn’t rain.

 

After several terribly tedious hours spent on finding novels and journals and biographies, all of which have already been reserved weeks in advance because there’s an apparent outcry for papers written on his exact topic, Taeyong finds himself with his forehead pressed against his crossed arms, bent over a desk in the library’s silent study area.

Upon lifting his head, he notes that many other students are assuming the same position. Some heavy, narcoleptic force is weighing stronger than gravity, and it’s starting to affect Taeyong too. He’s not sure how long he been napping, but the sky’s gotten even darker and there’s a deep rumbling coming from outdoors.

It’s raining.

The realization startles him, his spine straightening to take a better look out the window and assess the situation realistically.

Taeyong concludes that there’s a fucking flood falling from the sky.

There are a few options for him to consider. He could make a break for it to the nearest store and buy an umbrella. Although, he’d already be soaked by then, so that may not be worth it anyway. At least he didn’t bring his backpack or overpriced, begrudgingly purchased textbooks with him.

Perhaps he could call Ten, but Ten is on a date right now, and Taeyong would feel bad taking him away from it just because he didn’t have the foresight to bring an umbrella. Taeyong doesn’t have many more options: Ten is his only friend with a car, an Uber would overcharge him mercilessly in this weather, and there’s no one in the room whom Taeyong knows well enough to share an umbrella with all the way back to his apartment complex.

Taeyong stares at the window pane, mouth agape at the monstrosity of the storm. It looks like waterfalls are washing over the glass, and the thought of being out in the chaos makes Taeyong preemptively shiver. He sits in place, not daring to move out of an irrational fear that the rain would somehow get worse just as he left.

A few minutes pass, and Taeyong decides that he’ll have to leave eventually. He can’t stay forever. Mostly because the library is closing in five minutes.

After taking a deep breath, Taeyong pulls up the hood of his jacket, also zipping it the rest of the way up and shoving his hands into its pockets. The double doors open automatically, welcoming him into the dreadful land of watery doom.

The drops initially feel like pin pricks against his skin, annoying but not intolerable. However, when the rain starts to cling to his clothing, making the fabric heavy and burdensome, Taeyong thinks about how this will be the longest walk of his life.

 

Five minutes later, and the wind, once morning’s gentle breeze and now evening’s violent gust, flings the hood off of Taeyong’s head. His dark blond hair gets soaked, and more water cascades down his back. Taeyong uses his palms to push pieces of matted hair away from his face, not caring to pull his hood back up.

All he can hear is the sound of rain drops pounding against gravel, and the occasional set of car wheels sliding against the watery road. Taeyong feels overwhelmingly trapped by the weather and all of its ensuing conditions.

The overhead streetlights are a dim guide in his pitiful circumstance, colouring some beads of rain with muted oranges and yellows. It’s kind of pretty, but Taeyong’s sure he would appreciate it far more if he wasn’t so fixated on the next dreadful ten minutes until he reaches home.

Up ahead, in his obstructed vision, Taeyong sees a blur. It’s moving; it’s quite rapidly moving. With each movement, there’s another faint sound of splashing immediately followed by an outburst of droplets. Upon approaching this blur, Taeyong can make out some more details. There’s the sound of laughter, of puddles in shallow potholes being disturbed from their still form.

The blur is a person. Taeyong stops for a moment as soon as he’s close enough to realize this. The rain’s settled down, easing into sparse drops. He stares, in awe at how absolutely mad this person must be. The person is dancing in the middle of the street, seemingly unaware of anything around them, including Taeyong. Their short hair is being tossed around, their fringe sticking to their forehead, their arms raised above them in a blissful trance.

“Excuse me!” Taeyong calls out. He wants to see if he’ll get a response, to affirm whether this person is real and not a mythical figure of this cold night. The figure stops, looking surprised at Taeyong’s presence. They reach their hand out to his, compelling Taeyong to step toward them. He does. He feels a tug on his wrist, the person’s pulling him into the street. Taeyong feels his foot fall into a puddle, filling his shoes with even more water. A yelp escapes his mouth, to which the person laughs. It’s a male voice.

Now that they’re closer, Taeyong can make out his features more clearly. His eyes are bright and shiny, he has reddened cheeks and a wide cupid’s bow. He’s a little taller than Taeyong but it doesn’t seem so with how Taeyong’s shrunk his posture, shivering.

“Lovely night we’re having, isn’t it?” the man says, wide grin plastered across his mouth. Taeyong can smell alcohol on his breath mingling with the torrential rain.

“You’re crazy,” Taeyong replies, but he can’t help but smile too. The entire situation seems so ridiculous, but he can’t pull away from it. This other person seems, despite their eccentricity, harmless.

“Such wonderful weather!” the man exclaims, spinning around in place, not seeming to have heard Taeyong. “There’s been a drought lately.”

Taeyong’s not sure how to react. Just a moment ago he felt like he would collapse under the weight of his ice-infused joints. Now he’s just watching some man fool around in puddles. The man’s tipsy, that’s a given, but the sincere look of glee present on his face deters Taeyong from wanting to disagree with him.

A sudden downpour appears, suddenly drenching both of them for the nth time. Taeyong’s appalled, and the look must be evident on his face, because the man bursts into peals of laughter in response. It’s an infectious sort of sound, and suddenly Taeyong’s laughing too. They’re both practically doubled over for the next little while, before the sound of an approaching car prompts Taeyong to drag the man by the arm to the sidewalk.

“I’m hungry,” the man declares. He grabs Taeyong’s wrist again. “Let’s eat.”

Taeyong shoots his a confused look, but he doesn’t recoil.

“My name’s Yuta,” Yuta says, as if this will put away all apprehension Taeyong has.

“Taeyong,” he replies. “I don’t know you.”

“We know each other’s names, don’t we?” Yuta looks like he’s already made up his mind. “That’s good enough for me.”

Taeyong feels himself being pulled farther down the street. The day featured a theme of mild spontaneity, but he certainly hadn’t expected this of the night.

 

Yuta may still be a figment of Taeyong’s imagination because Taeyong’s never met someone who could talk so much before. The man has endless stories, words tripping off his tongue as though they lived there, lined up one after another. No story is finished before another one starts, and Taeyong initially finds it difficult to keep up, the colliding timelines confusing his vague understanding of each anecdote. He eventually gives up on understanding Yuta at all, allowing himself to follow what words he can while glancing around the drenched road to make sure there are no oncoming cars.

The night continues as Yuta drags Taeyong from restaurant to restaurant, relentless in his quest to find a place that will accept their dripping clothing and wet money. Four restaurants have already greeted them with a shocked look and an extended finger, pointing them toward the exit. Not surprising, but Taeyong really would like to get indoors soon.

He’s amazed at how none of the rejections have deterred Yuta, only motivating his efforts further. On their fifth restaurant, the waiter reluctantly allows them in. It’s one of those places with an elevated floor that make them remove their shoes must be removed before entering. Taeyong and Yuta slip theirs off, sticking them into cubbies and sliding onto two cushions that sandwich a table by a large window.

Taeyong orders a stew, and Yuta orders two more. “I have an appetite,” he explains.

“Dancing for hours in the rain will do that to you,” Taeyong retorts.

“It wasn’t hours,” Yuta says with false indignance. “It was fifteen minutes, you just so serendipitously happened to pass by.”

Under the fluorescent indoor lighting, Taeyong realizes he can make out every unobscured detail of Yuta’s face. The other man’s quite handsome, with the pieces of hair stuck to his cheeks and the sharpness of his jawline. His hair is dyed chestnut, his darker roots sprouting from the crown of his head.

“Do you go to the school nearby?” Taeyong asks. As relatively small as the student body is, Taeyong figures he’d seen everyone’s face at least once before, but Yuta seems a complete stranger.

“I do.” Yuta’s thought seems to have been unfinished by the way his mouth opened to continue his sentence, but he’s interrupted by the arrival of food. Then Taeyong witnesses what he thinks is the fastest eater in action. He’s barely halfway done his own soup when he catches Yuta staring at it, spoon already in his hand. Taeyong sighs and pushes his bowl toward his, he’s not really hungry anyway.

“Thanks!” Yuta devours the rest of the bowl’s contents in half a minute, Taeyong watches on in amazement. The man is absolutely ferocious in his actions, a startling development considering his figure. Taeyong places a hand on his stomach self-consciously.

Now that he has time to think, he wonders what time it is. His phone, kept safe in an inner pocket in his jacket, tells him it’s a quarter past one. Yikes. At least it’s the weekend.

“Hey,” Taeyong says to get Yuta’s attention. “What were you doing out there?”

“Dancing,” Yuta answers, looking at Taeyong inanely.

“No, I mean, why were you out there?” Taeyong tries again.

“Oh.” Yuta puts down his spoon, his hunger sated at last. “I was doing research for a paper, and then it started raining so I didn’t want to miss it.”

“That doesn’t make sense. What do you mean you didn’t want to miss it?”

Yuta laughs. “You ask a lot of questions.” He tilts his head, looking deep in thought. “I dunno, I was a little drunk, who knows what I was really thinking?”

“Weren’t you doing research?”

“And?”

Taeyong shakes his head, but smiles anyway. “Will you let me go now that you’ve deprived me of being home for a few hours?”

“Hell no.” Yuta raps his knuckles against the window. “Do you see that? It’s still raining.”

“That’s exactly why I’d like to be indoors,” Taeyong explains.

“It’s the first rainfall in weeks! You can’t waste it at home!” Yuta proclaims.

“What would I be missing out on?” Taeyong isn’t quite following Yuta’s train of thought. “Getting soaked?”

“Yes,” Yuta deadpans. “Stay out with me until it stops, please?”

“I don’t know you,” Taeyong repeats. “You could be a serial killer.”

“You do, I said I’m Yuta. And if I was a serial killer, I wouldn’t be in here—a well-lit facility with witnesses present—before I killed you,” Yuta says matter-of-factly. “This town is so much nicer at this time of the night, I promise.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, I just want to be home.” Taeyong’s sentiment is being ignored. Yuta’s already turned around and asking the waiter for the bill. Upon their arrival, Yuta hands over the appropriate amount of cash and tugs Taeyong up.

“There, I paid for your meal. Now you owe me.” Yuta’s already pulling on his own shoes and using his free hand to toss Taeyong his. Taeyong doesn’t argue that Yuta had been the one to eat most of his soup anyway, he just complies and slips his shoes on, cringing at the feeling of wet sock meeting wet sole.

“Where are we going?” Taeyong asks. There weren’t that many places open at this time of night, and even fewer that would allow them inside in their state.

Yuta shrugs, pushing open the glass door. The rain’s settled down, but even facing the pitter-patter makes Taeyong shudder. Uncaring, Yuta lets himself back into the rain’s frigid embrace, neck craned up to let droplets hit his face. They glean against the streetlights, casting a shadow across Yuta’s cheekbones.

Perhaps Taeyong’s gaze was lingering enough for Yuta to notice, because the latter gives him a knowing glance. Neither of them pursue the fleeting feeling of the moment. Instead, Yuta grabs Taeyong’s hand, gives him a cheeky grin, and leads him further into the dark.

 

Taeyong is wrong: there are many more stores open than he expected. However, he and Yuta get kicked out of most of them, so he isn’t _completely_ wrong.

They spend their time in a group of blocks Taeyong doesn’t often visit. The sound of rushing waves is considerably louder due to the district’s proximity to the beach. Small businesses line the streets, storefronts adorned with flickering lights and bells attached to doors that tinkle when opened.

Most of the stores sell trinkets and bobbles, nothing particularly useful but interesting enough to spend the next little while sifting through. And maybe Taeyong would admit the enjoyable time-killing was made so by Yuta’s conversation. His ability to talk, much like his ability to eat, is both unpredictable and astonishing.

“I loved this cartoon,” Yuta says in reference to a cat plushie on display in the (seventh? eighth? Taeyong’s lost count) store they’re in. “Look how cute!” The stuffed toy is shoved in front of Taeyong’s face, but he doesn’t have to say anything to prompt Yuta to continue. “I’d run home from elementary school every day to watch this on TV. My school wasn’t that far—it was only ten minutes away if I walked—but the show would be on five minutes after school ended so I’d bolt as soon as the bell rang. I got so many bruises on my knees running home, there was a street leaning downhill I’d run through but I never tied my laces properly so I’d fall and hurt my knees and sit in front of the TV watching this show with bleeding knees.”

Taeyong laughs. There’s something enthralling about the way Yuta talks, voice unwaveringly enthusiastic and hands gesturing wildly. He does this a few times, sees anything familiar and comments on it. The rolodex of anecdotes keeps spinning, Taeyong can practically hear the cards clicking against each other in Yuta’s hands. Whenever he’s about to say something, his eyes flicker.

In the last store on the street, the two of them are hysterical at the wet floor sign the establishment’s owner attempted to nonchalantly place next to them.

“Admit it,” Yuta says, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’re having fun.”

Taeyong lightly shoves the other man’s shoulder, but he doesn’t reply. To be honest, he forgot about going home, it was off his mind as soon as they entered this charming chain of stores. He doesn’t even want to know what time it is.

“It’s still raining,” Yuta says, taking Taeyong’s hand again. “One more stop, I promise.”

Taeyong nods.

 

“No,” Taeyong objects immediately when he starts feeling the ground underneath his feet become more malleable. “We are not going to the beach.”

“Relax,” Yuta attempts to wave away Taeyong’s apprehensions. “We’re not gonna swim.”

“It’s gonna be so cold,” Taeyong whines.

“You’re complaining about being cold now?” Yuta asks incredulously.

“This is the first time I’ve verbalized it,” Taeyong quips. Although out of the streetlights’ reach, he can’t see very well, he’s definitely on sand. He can hear the waves crashing against the shore at full volume now, and he’s never been more overwhelmed by the scent of saltwater. There’s a moment of admiration: Yuta must be beguiled too, Taeyong thinks.

The wind is blowing sand particles in swirls around the two, sticking to their wet skin and leaving them covered in grains. Somehow, Taeyong’s never felt cleaner. His head swivels to try and meet Yuta’s line of sight; even in darkness he can feel his gaze. They approach the water hand-in-hand.

“Look,” Yuta’s voice is hushed, but the two of them are close enough for Taeyong to hear him.

Taeyong looks. The stars, rippling ribbons reflected in the sea, are sparkling. The shimmers sway with the motion of the waves. It’s entrancing, Taeyong almost wants to reach out and grab at the lustre. The brevity of the light is encouraging him to step forward.

Beside him, Yuta is shuffling around. He throws something behind him, the objects landing with small thumps against the wet sand.

“Yuta, no—“ Taeyong begins, but Yuta’s already rolled up his jean cuffs and running into the water. “You said we wouldn’t swim!” he yells after him.

“Getting into the water isn’t swimming!” Yuta’s voice shoots back in the dim night.

“You’re gonna get hypothermia!” Taeyong’s fidgeting, he’s tempted to get in after him, but he knows it must be freezing. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Yeah!” Yuta laughs.

He’s crazy, he’s actually crazy, Taeyong thinks.

Now having intruded on the starlight, Yuta’s glowing. The raindrops on his skin are illuminating his every movement. All he’s doing is fawning over the scene around him, but Taeyong can only focus on Yuta.

Taeyong bites his lower lip, and pulls off his own shoes, leaving them aside in a spot where he hopes he can locate them later. A couple steps into the water, and he winces, but a surge of adrenaline courses through him.

Yuta cheers upon noticing Taeyong’s presence. He’s not much farther in, but the water’s already up to his waist as opposed to Taeyong being submerged up to his ankles. Yuta gestures for Taeyong to come closer to him. A few steps are taken, carefully, as if not to disturb the sea.

They’re facing each other now, and closer up, Taeyong’s in awe. Yuta’s smiling at him, he takes a step closer. His hands are on Taeyong’s shoulders. He’s leaning in closer, and Taeyong shuts his eyes, anticipating his next action. Instead, he feels his knees buckle under the pressure against his shoulders, and suddenly he’s underwater.

Gasping, he emerges, turning from side to side to find Yuta, who pops up a moment later, giggling like a child. “That wasn’t funny!” Taeyong exclaims, teeth chattering.

“It kind of was,” Yuta refutes, arms spread. He lets himself fall backward back into the water, splashing Taeyong in the process. He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself. Yuta continues his game, immersing himself under water and surfacing immediately, all laughter and shaking limbs.

Taeyong doesn’t think he’s ever felt this cold before but there’s a sort of manic warmth pooling in his chest. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fatigue, or some other phenomenon on this particularly unusual night, but Taeyong is enjoying himself, just standing in the middle of a freezing sea, luxuriating in the clearest view of the stars he’s ever had.

The motion of the waves is pushing the two of them back to the shore. Neither of them make a move farther in or out, they just let the current guide them back. When they feel more secure in the sand beneath them, they pad out of the watery playground.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” Yuta is running circles around the beach, searching for his discarded shoes. Taeyong easily finds his own a few steps away from the water.

“It was nice, but I regret it now,” Taeyong feels like his bones are shaking separately from his skin, shivering in an icy reprise. He’s watching Yuta’s shadowy figure dart from place to place, he’s found one shoe now but not the other. When he does come upon it, he holds both over his head, waving them like trophies. Taeyong laughs.

They sit next to each other on the sand, knees pulled up to their chest and heads leaning on each other as an attempt of retaining body heat. Their position remains the same for a little while, the both of them continuing to appreciate the view.

“This is so strange,” Taeyong says quietly. He hadn’t really meant it to directed toward Yuta, he just meant it as a fact.

“I like this,” Yuta replies. “When else will you get to see the beach in these conditions?”

“This is my first time being here,” Taeyong admits.

“Aren’t you glad your first visit here has been so special?”

“You are so strange.”

Yuta doesn’t say anything, just laughs. Their hands find each other again, fingers interlocking. The water’s done something debilitating to their brains, the way they’ve both been rendered completely silent aside from some shivering and content sighing.

It must almost be dawn, Taeyong thinks, with the way the sky is lightening up. He’s almost disappointed; it felt like this night was going to go on for eternity. He hadn’t realized he wanted that until now.

“I’m not going to disappear after this, you know,” Yuta says, as if he can read Taeyong’s thoughts, “I’m a real person.”

“I know,” Taeyong whispers. “Tonight’s just been unreal.”

“I get it,” Yuta murmurs. “Getting drunk reading philosophy books hasn’t usually led to this kind of thing until today.”

“You’re not working on a 400 paper too, are you?” Taeyong asks.

“Yeah, dummy, I’m in your class,” Yuta says.

Taeyong detaches his head from Yuta’s shoulder, looking at him incredulously.

“What?” Yuta asks. “I didn’t realize it immediately, I just recognized your face in the restaurant.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Yuta shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought it’d add to my mystique.”

Taeyong shoves Yuta.

“You were into it,” Yuta insists.

“Was _not_ ,” Taeyong refutes. “You’re too chatty to be mysterious.”

“Debatable,” Yuta snickers.

“Hey,” Taeyong says, looking up. “The rain’s stopped.”

They both look up, peering at the murky sky. It’s grey, but it’s free of any ominous clouds.

“Incredible storm, really enjoyed it, would definitely do it again,” Yuta says. “How’d you find it?”

“The rain was alright, the company was mediocre.”

Yuta scoffs disbelievingly, insulted.

 

The sky’s a shade of off-white by the time they’re near Taeyong’s apartment. Their hands are still together, arms swinging back and forth like all of the obnoxious couples Taeyong’s always side-eyed on campus.

“And _this_ is where I found you dancing drunk off your ass,” Taeyong comments when they pass a series of puddles, fake sentiment laced in his tone.

“And _here’s_ the street I led you down, drunk off my ass,” Yuta says, equally falsely nostalgic.

“I always did enjoy your spontaneity,” Taeyong gushes as they turn onto his apartment complex.

“I hope you still enjoy it now.”

Yuta grabs Taeyong by the shoulders and drags him close enough for their noses to bump. Taeyong flinches, closing his eyes and anticipating the oncoming kiss, but instead feels his hair being brushed aside and a pair of lips on his forehead. When Yuta lets go, he gives Taeyong a toothy grin.

“This is bullshit,” Taeyong complains. “You drag me around town all night and you don’t even kiss me properly.”

“Sorry, I only kiss on the second date. It’s a rule of mine,” Yuta takes a few steps forward, positively satisfied. He only turns back around upon realizing Taeyong hasn’t followed.

“This is my place,” Taeyong says, stopped in front of his apartment building.

“Oh,” Yuta doesn’t need to saying more for Taeyong to realize they’re both a little disappointed.

“I have a proposition,” Taeyong starts. “If you wouldn’t like to trek back to your own home, you’re free to take refuge here and take a nap on my incredibly comfortable bed in some very warm, very dry clothes.”

“Is there a however-clause?” Yuta asks, amused.

“However,” Taeyong continues. “Waking up marks the beginning of a second date. Deal?”

Yuta crosses his arms, furrowing his brow in deep contemplation before giving a resolute nod. “Deal,” he says.

Taeyong smiles at him, and turns toward his apartment, Yuta following silently.

As Taeyong searches through his damp pockets for his keys, Yuta resolves to kiss him in the elevator. He hopes Taeyong will forgive him for breaking the rules.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a rework of something i wrote three years ago but i wanted to revisit the original story it always had a special lil place in my heart...thanks for reading as always. let me know what you thought ♡
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/idle_song) | [curiouscat](http://curiouscat.me/idlesong)


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